


I Less Than Three You

by james



Category: Leverage
Genre: Computer geeks are sexy, First Time, M/M, Undercover, so are Harleys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot has to go undercover as a computer student and his only contact is Hardison.  One of them has the short end of this deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Less Than Three You

  


Eliot scowled. "Why do I have to be the geek? Shouldn't Hardison be doing that?"

"You have to go in as the student," Nate explained, both of them ignoring Hardison's huffed expression of offense. "Hardison can't fake being an introductory computer science student while he does the necessary exploration and surveillance of Dr. Martinelli's systems to figure out how he's robbing these people. Sophie can't do it because he's already met her socially, so she gets to play the visiting professor and try to lure him into confessing his crimes with her feminine wiles." Nate paused and gave Sophie an appreciative nod which she returned with a smile. "Meanwhile, neither Parker nor I can do it because do you really want either of us sitting in a classroom for six hours with nothing but a computer programming course to keep us entertained?"

Eliot looked from Nate to Parker, who gave him her bright, happy grin that always made her look like a serial killer. He scowled at her and said, "So what you're saying is, since I'm trained to withstand torture, I get to do it."

"Bingo," Nate said, saluting him with the glass in his hand. 

"Now I'm insulted," Hardison said. "Besides, at least it's a introductory programming language class, not some 'how do I use my email' thing. You might actually learn something useful."

Eliot raised his eyebrow. "I already know fifteen ways to kill somebody with a slide rule, and fourteen ways to bore them to death. What else could I possibly need to learn?" He watched, amused, as Hardison just frowned, then worked his jaw up and down for a moment, clearly unable to think of a good enough retort. Eliot turned his glower onto Nate, who, as usual, barely seemed to notice. "You said it sometimes takes up to _six months_ for his students to get robbed."

Nate waved a hand dismissively. "The course is only eight weeks," he said, ignoring the way Eliot choked. "And while we know he's committing identity theft, we don't actually know how he's getting the information. Even if he's getting names, addresses, social security numbers from the class registrar -- which is where I'll be -- he's also somehow getting into their bank accounts, credit cards, loans, everything. So, Hardison will set you up with a full identity and we'll have to make sure he steals it." Nate gave Eliot a smug smile.

"And if he doesn't?"

"You can take the advanced course," was Nate's only reply. Then he winked. "If you get an A we'll talk about you replacing Hardison."

"Hey!" Hardison yelped. Eliot just laughed. 

~~~

He was very definitely not laughing when Hardison showed up at his house the next morning. He wasn't due at the community college for another hour and he'd expected to meet Hardison there to pick up everything he'd need. But Hardison just stood at his door holding a duffel bag, leaning on the doorbell until Eliot yanked it open.

"Don't make me kill you before the job's even started," Eliot told him. 

"You know, it's too bad Dr. Martinelli isn't teaching a class on anger management," Hardison told him as he looked around, threw Eliot a look that said he thought Eliot was crazy as he walked through to the dining room to set the duffel bag on the table. "Man, you need more furniture." He gestured at the living room which had a sofa up against one wall, and two bookcases along the other. The rest of the room was empty, the wooden floor polished smooth.

"I don't need furniture," Eliot snapped. He used the living room as a workout room -- not for weights or the punching dummies, those were set up in the second bedroom. But here he worked on his martial arts, or set up a dartboard to practice throwing knives. He was able to get a greater distance out here if he stood in the dining room, and more, he was able to spin around and practice throwing from different angles, imagining the bodies or projectiles flying at him as he fought. Nowhere else in the house was big enough to offer a challenge.

"This is so very sad; we clearly need to get you -- there's no TV?" Hardison looked around. "How can there be no TV?"

"I have a set in the bedroom," Eliot told him, to hold him off. He knew Hardison's next project would be to outfit Eliot's living room with a state of the art entertainment system if he didn't nip this in the bud right here and now. He'd have to hope Hardison didn't go in there to find the 14 inch set; there was no doubt he'd declare it woefully insufficient and campaign to get Eliot a new one. "Besides," he added honestly, "If I want to watch the game on the big screen, I head to Nate's."

"You know we can steal cable for you, right?" Hardison looked at him with a pitying expression. "We don't even need to use cable splicers. Or, you know, actual cables."

Eliot flipped him off. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Well, since we don't know how he's stealing information from his students, I figured...how would I do it? And the answer involves a lot of fancy, brilliant, sneaky-ass moves that nobody but me and about three other computer geniuses could pull off."

Eliot rolled his eyes.

"So then," Hardison continued, as if Eliot wasn't standing there making choking noises as he died of boredom. "I asked myself what would a less-brilliant computer thief do? And there's a couple choices. One, he might ask his students to input their information during class -- set up some fake exercise, tell everyone there's no harm, that the data isn't going anywhere."

"Which we won't know until I'm sitting in his class -- although Sam said he didn't remember anything like that happening."

Hardison nodded. "Which leaves the other best option, which is: he's being damned sneaky. For all we know he's following people home and rifling through their trash. And that means you need to be a geek as soon as you walk out this door, and you can't stop being a geek until the job is over." He looked around Eliot's living room with a woeful, but determined, expression.

Eliot grabbed him by the shirt, twisting it slightly. "So you're telling me we have me set up in a fake apartment, right? Because if you touch my house, I will kill you."

Hardison made a face at him. "Two words: anger management. But actually, yeah, we do. At first I was gonna set you up in my place figured we could hang out." He grinned, widely, then the smile faded quickly as Eliot growled. Hardison shook his head slightly. "But Nate's right. I'm way too good, and if Dr. Martinelli is half as good as he thinks he is, he'll notice my natural, undisguiseable genius if he's watching you too closely. So I got you a small apartment not far from the campus, and I spent _all night_ getting it decked out. Nate says you'll stay there until we can catch this guy."

"You could have just called, Hardison," Eliot said, digesting the evolution of the plan, and finding that as annoying as it might sound, he couldn't find much fault with it. 

"I had to bring you your car." Hardison gestured outside. Eliot walked over to the front window and looked out. 

"You have got to be kidding me."

Hardison pouted at him. "What's wrong with it? I even got you a nice black one."

"It's a fucking _Yaris,_ Hardison. I'm not driving--"

Hardison held up one finger. "Eliot Spencer may not, but Devon Stewart drives a five year old Yaris. It gets good gas mileage and it was cheap." He raised an eyebrow at Eliot, challenging him to protest.

"You're telling me that computer geeks don't ride motorcycles?"

Hardison just gave him a look. Then he said, "If you want someone to look after your Harley while you're undercover, I'll be glad to look in on it, maybe take it out for a spin--" 

Eliot was standing half an inch away from him, glaring at him as he forced himself to keep his hands at his sides. "If you touch my bike I will glue large magnets to every single one of your hard drives. Including the ones you think you have hidden from us, and before you say one word about how clever you are at hiding stuff, I have one thing to say: Parker."

"What makes you think she'd help you instead of me?" Hardison asked, looking offended and trying to lean back, away from Eliot without actually taking a step backwards.

Eliot grinned. "Simple. I'll make her favorite cheesecake."

Now Hardison was pouting. "Fine, but you still get to drive the Yaris."

Eliot shook his head, knowing that he wasn't going to win, but there was no way he was ever going to give in to Hardison without a fight, no matter what it was about. "I'm going to get you for this."

Hardison gave him a thoughtful look. "You know, I think I'm going to go ahead and enroll you in a yoga class while you're there."

"I've done yoga," Eliot told him. "It's good for improving your balance."

"But not your temperament, I see," Hardison just said, and he pulled a folder out of the bag he'd brought and began handing Eliot his new identity. Along with papers and a wallet full of plastic cards, was a backpack with Eliot's textbook, notebooks, and a laptop. He pulled the pencil case out and sneered.

"There's no way in hell I'm carrying this."

"Seriously? Who doesn't like Star Wars? I even got you Darth Vader."

Eliot just shut him up with a look, dropped the pencil case, and took everything else and started stuffing it into his pockets.

"You gotta change first, man," Hardison says, and he pulled a shirt out of the bag.

Eliot just glared at him for a long moment, then snatched it out of Hardison's hands. "I have my own clothes, Hardison. I have done this part before."

He expected another comment about his temper, but instead Hardison just smiled and said in a sly-dog tone, "Well, tell me when we get to the new stuff, baby, and I'll talk you through it."

Eliot rolled his eyes, but couldn't stop himself from letting out a laugh.

~~~

In the corner of his monitor, Eliot typed, 'I am going to kill you.'

There was a pause, then the reply appeared. 'Dude, I'm not the one who got us this job. Yell at Sophie. She brought Sam in.'

'You're here,' Eliot typed, then he raised his head and stared at Dr. Martinelli, who was asking a question of the student sitting nearest Eliot. Most of the other students were typing half-heartedly, checking back and forth between the overhead projector and their screens. Eliot did just enough of the same to keep from drawing attention, which meant mostly he alternated between staring at the projected screens, and explaining to Hardison how he was going to get his revenge.

It was the first day of classes and the first hour had been introductions and orientation and making sure everyone was in the right room and knew what a mouse was. Eliot had found a station in the very back where he could see the entire room. He also had a clear view out of the windows and through the partially-open door and he was close to the interior wall so he could hear if anything unusual approached.

He'd quickly tuned out whatever Dr. Martinelli had said after he told them to open up a window; instead he slipped the USB drive thing -- whatever it was Hardison had given him so Hardison could replicate whatever work Eliot was supposed to be doing during class and not draw too much notice to himself. Hardison had tried to tell Eliot to do the work himself, but Eliot had only had to glare at him for five seconds before Hardison had capitulated. He'd come up with the device last minute, grumbling about rushed jobs, but handed it over with an overly-complicated explanation. Some weird combination of thumb-drive and bluetooth, only Hardison swore no one would notice and no, it wasn't big enough to load a game onto so Eliot could watch while everyone else learned how to talk to computers.

As soon as he'd slipped it into his computer, a small window had popped up in one corner and 'sw33tl33tA' had appeared. Eliot had told him there was no way he was talking to anyone with such a stupid nickname, but after ten minutes of listening to Martinelli, Eliot had started typing back. Threats, mostly, but at least it kept him entertained. Kept him from leaping up and strangling the kid two rows ahead of him who wouldn't stop asking questions, or rattling off "suggestions" that made it clear he'd already learned this crap somewhere and just wanted to show off. Or maybe he didn't know anything, Eliot amended, after Hardison -- who was listening in on Eliot's earbud -- started ranting in Eliot's chat window about the kid spouting the stupidest pile of garbage he'd ever heard.

Eliot leaned back. Even if he had no clue what they were talking about, watching a fight-by-proxy was a hell of a lot more fun than anything else he had available.

When it was time for lunch, Eliot gathered his things and followed the others out, taking his time to look over Martinelli's desk. He didn't see anything suspicious, but he memorized what he saw in case it turned out to matter later. Then he left before Martinelli could catch him -- or ask him what he thought about the day's lesson -- and headed for the cafeteria. 

He took one look at the lunch being served at the tiny deli that served as the cafeteria and disregarded it. He didn't even bother considering the snack machines at the far end of the seating area, and reluctantly decided he would have to risk looking at the lunch Hardison had packed him along with his books and stupid pencil case. With a feeling of curious dread, he commandeered a table and sat down, pulling out the wrapped lunch.

He stared at it for a long moment. "Are you kidding me, Hardison?"

There was a pause before Hardison's voice came over his earbud. "What's up?" The man was chewing, clearly taking advantage of the break for his own lunch, though God knew what Hardison was eating. Probably, Eliot realised, the same crap he was staring at now. He didn't touch the styrofoam container.

"Cup of Soup? A bag of...what the hell are these?"

"Swedish Fish," Hardison said. "The perfect lunch of up and coming geeks everywhere. Gotta stay in character, man." He didn't sound at all apologetic.

"I'm not eating this shit." He looked around the cafeteria again. There had to be at least a salad bar where the food wasn't wilted or tasteless -- maybe even a pre-wrapped salad made by someone who had a clue what grape tomatoes were. But there wasn't. The deli was serving burgers that looked to be more filler than meat, and were about the size of a fifty-cent piece. The fries didn't even warrant thinking about, limp and greasy and looking like they'd taste like cardboard. A closer look at the snack machines showed there wasn't even a 'healthy selections' option of a granola bar or beef jerky, or anything at all he could stomach long enough to get home and get some real food.

He was able to grab a plastic cup and get water from the fountain; it tasted like metal and was too cold, but it was better than nothing. He'd drunk filthier water, that was for certain, and at least he wasn't likely to catch any serious diseases from drinking it. He made his way back to his table and sat down. The cup of soup was still sitting there, taunting him.

The annoying part was that Hardison was right. He had to stay in character, because Martinelli had come through once already, getting a soda from the machine before leaving again. There were two other guys Eliot had seen talking to Martinelli before class -- teaching assistants or something. It was likely that Martinelli had help with his scheme, so Eliot not only had to keep an eye out for potential contacts, he had to remain in character in case any of them were watching him. Martinelli might easily be gathering the information they needed in places like this, over lunch and casual conversation, rather than stealing it in the classroom.

Eliot sighed and glared at the cup. It wasn't even real ramen -- he could have made himself some noodles if he'd been thinking ahead, but he hadn't counted on the school's food to be quite so inedible. The bag of bright red gummy fish wasn't even an option, not unless he was completely desperate for sugar and he'd have to have starved for days before he'd be that desperate. The noodles at least had salt and carbs, but little else to offer other than calories, if tasteless ones.

Eliot sneered. He'd rather starve.

  
"Please tell me you didn't stock the cupboards," Eliot said that evening as he walked into the tiny apartment they'd set him up in. He'd survived his first day of class, thankfully without learning a single thing about whatever programming language it was supposed to be. Hardison had already agreed to do his homework -- reluctantly, but Eliot had it in writing from the little chat window so there was no way Hardison could back out. Eliot had half-heartedly agreed to maybe cook him some small something in exchange, like maybe spaghetti or a pot of soup. Something a damn sight better than the cup of crap he'd tried to feed Eliot with.

"Of course I stocked the cupboards," Hardison retorted. "Your place had to look lived in, in case they break in to steal your wallet or hard-drive."

With a feeling of dread, Eliot yanked open each of the cupboards, then looked in the fridge. All he found was Fruit Loops, ramen noodle Cup a Soups, four bottles of Mountain Dew and a gallon of milk. He looked again, because not even Hardison would do this to him; except, no, he would. "There's nothing to eat here!" he snapped. "There's no butter or salt or flour, so I could at least make my own pasta!"

"Cooking gourmet dinners is not the geeky way," Hardison replied, sounding far too calm. "I gave you the same kinda stuff I eat. Did you even look in the freezer? I gave you every different kind of Hot Pockets they make, even the disgusting ones like Spicy Hawaiian."

Eliot rolled his eyes but didn't even open the freezer door, knowing he'd be likely to yank it off its hinges. In a tight voice, he asked, "Hardison, do you recall how often you try to con me into cooking for you?"

There was a pause, then Hardison, sounding confused, said, "Well, yeah, man, that's because you're a good cook."

"And the food I make is better than that crap you eat at home," Eliot ground out. "Because the crap you eat isn't real food! It's plastic and cardboard and how the hell am I supposed to do anything with any of this?" He knew he was shouting, now, but not loudly enough anyone but Hardison could hear. 

"Then order some damn pizza," Hardison retorted. "Don't have a snit fit!"

Eliot clenched his fists, wishing he had something to hit. Some _one._ "Geno's is the only place that makes pizza worth eating, and they don't deliver." He went over and grabbed his jacket -- his own jacket, because despite whatever Hardison said, he had his own wardrobe of costumes. Maybe he couldn't pull off the tortured geek look as easily as Hardison, but that was a point in his favor. He gave the kitchen one last scowl. "I'm going to the store. Are you going to tell me that computer geek wannabes don't eat salad and sandwiches?"

"Just make sure you don't go overboard," Hardison said, then spoke in an exaggerated tone, "Actually, no, don't get salad. Speaking for my people, we don't eat vegetables."

Eliot rolled his eyes, and stifled a smile before forcing a growl back into his voice. "I can make a sandwich, though, without tipping this guy off? You think that will be safe enough?" He hoped Hardison never figured out how much fun it was to argue with him, even if the man did sometimes honestly piss him off. Hardison could be extremely annoying at times. Case in point, Eliot hadn't eaten all day because Hardison was...well, Hardison. 

Hardison, who was still talking like he was planning out a job. "Processed meat, that's fine, but don't get that nasty whole wheat eat bread stuff you usually buy--"

"I don't buy bread, Hardison, I have a bread machine," Eliot interrupted.

There was another pause. "You make your own bread? So, wait, does that mean you deliberately put those seeds in it?"

"Of course I deliberately put seeds in it," Eliot began, but Hardison talked over him.

"Because I told you I don't like those things, and you always say I can eat around them--"

"Because you can eat around them! Or, here's a clue, stop stealing my sandwiches!"

"I didn't steal your sandwich, and besides which, if you can make your own bread, and put whatever you want to in it, why put seeds in it? They get in-between your teeth and--"

"They're good for you, Hardison. And they make you stop stealing my sandwiches."

"I never stole-- okay, one time, but the other times were all... You know what? Clearly you don't listen, you don't care about my health because you deliberately put seeds into my bread--"

" _My_ bread," Eliot interjected.

"And you could just as easily leave them out and, I don't know, make that honey rye thing you made once and which I loved, and you've never made it again which hurts me, man, real deep."

"You liked the honey rye?" Eliot honestly didn't remember that. He didn't often make rye bread, because he had a tendency to eat the whole damn loaf at one sitting if it was available. He had enough self-discipline not to, of course, but it was hard to remember that when he was pulling a fresh loaf of rye out of the oven. Butter and a bit of honey and if he let himself bake it as often as he wanted it, he'd weigh three hundred pounds no matter how much he worked out.

"I don't think I'm talking to you," Hardison was saying. His tone was the faked-hurt that Eliot didn't think anyone had ever fallen for, but he was pretty sure Hardison had never expected anyone to. 

"Then you sit there and don't talk while I go buy me some real food," Eliot suggested. 

"Just remember we don't know if Martinelli is watching--"

"I know! Jesus, Hardison, this isn't my first job. I'll buy something even you'd think was food, but which might actually be edible." As Eliot headed out of the front door and down towards the parking garage, he tried to think about what that might possibly be. "Do you eat sushi?"

"Yeah, sushi's all right. Not anything with tentacles, that's just nasty and I don't eat anything slimy. But a nice California roll? Some rice and shrimp and, yeah, that'd be okay."

"I'm so glad it meets with your approval," Eliot snapped, but it lacked any real heat and really he was just glad he had something to do with his evening other than make plans to strangle Hardison the first -- well, next -- chance he got. He had plenty of those plans made already anyhow, he had to admit, because for some reason Hardison just seemed to inspire him.

~~~

The second day of class was just as awful, with Martinelli droning on about what-the-fuck ever and Hardison being his only lifeline. Hardison kept him updated about Sophie's progress, not that Eliot really wanted the details. But keeping tabs on the rest of the team was better than looking at Mrs. Ellison's baby photos. She was sitting at the workstation catty-corner to his, one row up, and she kept turning around to whisper at him about yet another cute thing her grandson had done. Eliot kept smiling, gritting his teeth and not telling her that her grandson was the ugliest baby he'd ever seen, and he'd seen some pretty ugly babies in his time.

Otherwise he tried to keep an ear on Martinelli without actually listening to him because Eliot sure as hell didn't want to absorb anything the guy was teaching. If he ended up sounding like Hardison after this, he was going to hurt somebody for real. He'd spent most of the morning nagging Hardison to pass that along to Nate, Sophie, and anyone else who thought about making plans for future cons.

He did know enough about computers to write out a sentence and copy it onto the clipboard, then he pasted it into the chat window whenever he couldn't risk typing it all out again and raising Martinelli's suspicions. He spent twenty minutes straight sending Hardison the text: 'I'm going to kill you' and after the first few dozen times Hardison started talking about a program he was writing that would intercept hurtful comments and rewrite them into saying more positive, nurturing things like 'Hardison, you're brilliant.'

When lunch rolled around Eliot didn't make the same mistake twice; he headed outside to the campus' tiny park and grabbed one of the benches. He'd packed his own damn lunch, thank you, and he settled in to try to relax and enjoy a sandwich. As he took his first bite he discovered his error, as Mrs. Ellison and one of the other students, a younger woman named Cindy, sat down on the bench with him. Eliot tried not to choke on his sandwich, fighting to remain in character. 

"Act cool," Hardison hissed in his earbud. "They might be in on it." As if he wasn't aware of that, Eliot thought darkly to himself.

He smiled at the ladies, inwardly enjoying a mental image of melting down all of Hardison's computers in a vat of acid. It didn't take long for them to start talking at him about Vernon, the ugly grandson, or for Ellison to pull out something green and fuzzy that she was apparently knitting for him. Cindy kept giving Eliot half-apologetic smiles as the older woman talked without giving either of them a chance to get a word in. Eliot got the impression Cindy was another daughter, or maybe a niece and was used to following her around and trying to keep her out of trouble.

He managed to keep up the appearance of polite interest, made even more difficult when the older woman pulled out a smartphone and began cycling through three hundred photos of her darling grandson. Hardison didn't make it any easier, somehow getting a look at one of the pictures and then teasing Eliot over the earbud for the entire lunch break.

They all ended up walking back to the classroom together and Eliot had barely sat down at his workstation before he was typing out 'I am going to kill you slowly' in the chat window.

'Relax,' came Hardison's reply. 'There's only seven and a half weeks left. How many pictures can one grandmother have of her first and only grandson?'

Eliot had to restrain himself from beating his forehead against the table. He could hear Hardison snickering over the earbud and he thought about ways he could render a loud, high-pitched squeal over the comms with the materials he had at hand. He wasn't amused when he realised that, given where he was sitting, he'd have to ask Hardison for advice.

When he finally got back to the apartment he had a headache from the tension in his shoulders. He'd wanted very much to drag the Karastov kid out into the hallway and throw him around a little; the scrawny teenager kept raising his hand and interrupting Martinelli's lectures, and from what Eliot could tell from Martinelli's reactions, the questions were stupid even for a complete beginner. He was tempted to threaten the kid to keep quiet tomorrow, but -- like Nate and Hardison kept reminding him -- they had no idea who was behind the thefts. He was there to observe and hopefully become a target so they could put a stop to things.

He didn't think Nate would approve of Eliot threatening bodily harm in retaliation for someone asking dumb questions, at least not when it wasn't one of their own briefings. So he was in a foul mood when he got back to his temporary dwelling and he threw his bag on the counter with more force than was required. Eliot glared at the fridge and the computer set up in the corner; he was damned if he was going to find anything to relieve his stress here in the house of the geek.

Eliot was about to grab his jacket and head back out, because surely even geeks drank beer in bars, and maybe he could even find some girl who thought the glasses and checkered shirt were cute. There was a knock on his door before he could get there, and, alert and focused, he slid closer and peered quickly through the peephole.

Hardison was standing on the other side. Eliot yanked the door open, glaring. "What the fuck, Hardison?" He glared at the Little Caesar's pizza box in Hardison's hand, because there was _no way,_ though at least the six pack in Hardison's other hand made up for that, a little. Except as he opened his mouth to point this out, he got a whiff of the pizza.

"That's not Little Caesar's," he said, and he grabbed the box, heading for the kitchen and pretending to not notice Hardison following him inside. Setting the box on the counter, he opened it, then stared. "This is a pepperoni special from Geno's." He looked up at Hardison, not bothering to hide his surprise.

"I didn't know what kind you liked, so I asked Geno. That's what he made." He shrugged dismissively, like he hadn't just driven across town to buy a pizza and camouflaged it in case Eliot was under surveillance. Eliot glanced at the beer again and saw that the case said Miller's Lite but the bottles themselves were Bourney's Boston Ale.

"Seriously?" he asked, sincere and disbelieving.

"I kind of got the impression you were a little unhappy with your job," Hardison said, sarcastically. "What with the five thousand six hundred and twenty nine messages telling me you were going to kill me." Hardison gave him a dour look, and Eliot just grinned.

"Come on, the game's about to start. Please don't tell me I'm not allowed to watch basketball."

"No, no, basketball's cool. We can watch the game and you can tell me all about Mrs. Ellison's brilliant grandson and how he's going to be a doctor or astronaut or some shit." 

Eliot just threw a wadded up napkin at Hardison's head, then grabbed two bottles of beer and set the rest in the fridge. Hardison just stood there and rolled his eyes. As though _he_ were the long-suffering one, Eliot thought. They took the pizza to the couch, where Hardison found the game on the TV, and they settled in.

At halftime, Eliot asked, "Do we have anything yet? I'm not going to have to finish this class, am I?"

"Nate's got himself and Parker checking out everyone in the class, or who works with Martinelli. They're focusing on anyone who talks to you -- because, as we all know, people usually give you a wide berth." He looked Eliot up and down, then shook his head.

"Yeah, because when I'm dressed like this, I look like a complete nerd," Eliot agreed.

"Okay, do we have to go over the difference again?" Hardison demanded. "Geek, nerd, dork -- they are completely different things."

"Do I look like I really care?" Eliot growled. Hardison looked back at him, blinked once, then there was the smallest hint of a laugh. Eliot narrowed his eyes more, and Hardison was clearly working very hard to keep his face straight as he eyed Eliot, noting in particular the glasses, checkered shirt, and poorly-made ponytail. Eliot waited, then finally Hardison leaned back and laughed.

When he got himself under control, he shook his head. "Right now you look like one of those tiny dogs that weighs about half a pound. Barking like they're gonna tear your head off, but they fit in the palm of your hand." He held up his fingers, showing the size of what Eliot assumed was the teacup chihuahua he was talking about.

Eliot waited until Hardison had calmed down, then leaned closer. "The difference is, I really _can_ tear your head off," he said, softly, in the tone which he used to let someone know what he was capable of.

Not the tone he used when he was really serious -- when he really had to tear heads off, his voice went flat and there really wasn't much inflection at all. But he'd found over the years that enough persuasion of voice and stance meant he sometimes didn't have to actually hurt anyone.

Besides, the way it made Hardison squeak and push back against the couch was kind of funny. Eliot grinned at him, laughed once, and picked up another slice of pizza.

~~~

Eliot made it through the third and fourth days in similar fashion: he tried to avoid his classmates, repeatedly told Hardison how much he hated sitting in the class, and spent the evenings watching a game on TV with whatever actually decent food Hardison had managed to bring over. Eliot was reluctantly impressed with Hardison's ability to find decent food that was edible and didn't threaten his cover -- at least until the other man admitted he'd asked Sophie for advice on where to get takeout that Eliot wouldn't throw in his face.

Friday afternoon came and Eliot was faced with the prospect of spending the entire weekend in nerd-land without even the distraction of the class and the vague notion that he was actually working a job. Eliot made a face at his computer screen, clearing his expression quickly before anyone caught sight of it. He pasted his default death-threat sentence into the chat window for Hardison and faked listening to the professor, who was saying something and making eye contact with each of the students. Eliot tried to look attentive and like he had some idea of what the guy was talking about.

He could ask Hardison later, though it wasn't like he _needed_ to know since Hardison was doing his homework. He didn't really need to know any of this crap -- and even as he thought it, he realised he'd actually understood what Martinelli had just said.

Eliot typed, _kill me_ into the chat window. He tried to stop listening, but there was no way to block out Martinelli's voice as he pointed to the screen behind him and Eliot found himself deciphering the first line of code.

_I'm begging you, kill me now._

_More pictures of grandkids?_ Hardison asked.

Eliot paused, knowing that admitting the truth would only get Hardison laughing at him for the rest of his life. Or, worse, have Hardison teaching him more of this shit for real. He decided the better part of discretion was to ignore the question, and just typed, _I'm going to have to scrub my brain. I need hockey. There had better be a game on tonight that geeks are allowed to watch._

_Speaking for my people, I grant you that we do, on occasion, watch hockey. Okay, no, not really. We could watch more basketball, though._

_I need hitting,_ Eliot told him. Or I'm going to be punching someone. 

There was a pause, then, _You are so very high maintenance, you know that?_

_Hitting. Guys hitting each other or me hitting whoever happens to be closest._ Eliot glanced at Martinelli's display again, which had changed, and he clenched his jaw as the first part of the third line made perfect sense. _Hockey fights. Tonight._

_Parker says to tell you you're being a whiny butt, and that she wants to see hockey, too. But you have to explain the rules to her again and you have to make popcorn._

_Are geeks allowed to be friends with hot blondes?_ Eliot asked, smirking to himself as he imagined the look on Hardison's face.

There was another pause, then, _Hardison is making funny noises. Should I do the Heimlich?_

_Yes, Parker, you should definitely do the Heimlich Maneuver. Ignore him when he says he's fine._ Eliot laughed softly to himself, and figured if he'd just talked himself out of Hardison providing his geek-exile with a hockey game, then it was probably still worth it.

He turned his attention back to Martinelli, scowling as he realised he was able to type the first portion of the question's answer onto his own screen. He didn't do any such thing, of course, because then Hardison would know. It would be better to let this stuff keep eating its way into his brain than to let on to Hardison that he was learning how to program in C++.

Suddenly Eliot realised that he'd even known which language it was, and had to stop himself from banging his forehead onto the keyboard.

  
The weekend dragged, as Eliot had expected it to. At Nate's suggestion, he'd gone back to campus to try to contact some of Martinelli's known associates which meant staying in character and trying to make conversation with computer science students, professors, and some of the staff. He hadn't hated the idea of trying to chat with the receptionist in the Computer Science department office until Hardison had gotten into his earbud and reminded him he couldn't flirt, couldn't be charming, and could not under any circumstances invite her back to his apartment for dinner.

Eliot had tried arguing that maybe she knew something and maybe he _needed_ to get closer to someone in the office to try to figure out how Martinelli was getting to his victims. But Hardison had deflected every single suggestion Eliot had made, and Eliot was about to call him on the fact his reasons were getting worse as the argument went on. Then Parker's voice had come over the earbud.

"You can't go out with her tonight anyway, because Nate had the same idea and sent me in. Turns out Alice is her type!"

Eliot had forced himself not to laugh at the sound of annoyed triumph from Hardison. He'd extricated himself from the campus finally, however, and headed back to his -- Devon Stewart's -- apartment. It only took another half hour before Hardison showed up on his doorstep with a Geno's pizza hidden inside another box and good beer hidden inside a cooler. Eliot let him in, grumbling under his breath and shooting the other man dark looks solely on principle.

They soon got settled in front of the TV as the Bruins' pre-game began. "We really should be watching Lord of the Rings, you know," Hardison said. "The Hobbit is coming out soon, and any self-respecting geek should be getting ready for it."

Eliot stared at Hardison without blinking for several straight seconds before Hardison began to fidget. Then Eliot just said, "No," and turned back to the TV.

"We could start you on a Red Dwarf marathon," Hardison suggested. "I bet you'd love--"

"No, Hardison," Eliot said mildly. He usually skipped the pre- and post-game shows, but anything was better than risking Hardison getting bored and trying to find a DVD to make him watch and miss the game entirely. He took a drink of his beer, grateful again it wasn't Miller Lite.

Not that he'd never spent a year with nothing but PBR available, but when he could buy anything he wanted, there was no reason to waste his money on cheap crap. Eliot glanced down at the bottle in his hand and suppressed a sigh.

"I get the wrong kind?" Hardison asked.

"Nah, it's fine. Kinda impressed I'm allowed to drink small-brewery craft beer, though." Eliot tried giving him a smirk and knew it fell a little flat. Not his fault, really; he was tired and irritable and even good beer and fantastic pizza wasn't helping his mood.

"You mean because geeks normally don't have any taste?" Hardison asked, and Eliot looked at him, surprised by the sharp tone in his voice. Hardison shook his head. "You know, I get this from you all the time and I'm used to it, really, but I have to say right now it's getting a little fucking old. So you have to live like me for a while. Get over it."

"I'll make you remember that when you have to spend a month living like me," Eliot retorted. "Maybe I should take you up into the woods and we'll camp out again." 

"I don't think Nate's going to let us go fishing, ever again." Hardison shook his head. 

"It'll be fun," Eliot said. "I'll teach you how to survive with nothing but a knife and a box of matches."

Hardison made a face at him. "No way."

"You owe me," Eliot told him.

Hardison turned an incredulous look on him. "How.. how do _I_ owe _you?_ How is this job in any way my doing? And how can you possibly compare sleeping on the ground in the forest where there's _animals_ to having everything you could possibly want under a roof with four walls, high def TV, and gigabit internet?" 

Eliot just growled. "There is _nothing_ in this apartment that I want." He took a drink of his beer, mentally revising his claim because he'd keep the pizza and beer. And probably the premium sports package Hardison had hooked him up with. He was taking another drink when he realised Hardison was staring at the TV, not even trying to respond. He could see by the set of Hardison' jaw that the man was genuinely upset. Eliot sighed. "I get that this is crap you like," he began.

"You know what? Don't." Hardison glanced at him, then stood up, suddenly. "Keep the food, watch the game yourself. I don't even like hockey." He walked away, heading for the door. Eliot watched him for a moment before he leapt up.

"Hardison," he said, as Hardison got within two steps of the front door. Hardison paused, then took another step and reached for the door. Eliot was ready to let him go, because a quiet night with a hockey game was a lot better than Hardison hanging around being annoying.

Eliot caught up with him as he opened the door. "Hardison, wait." 

Hardison just turned a glare on him, not moving to take his hand off the doorknob.

"I wasn't actually trying to insult you," Eliot began, and Hardison raised an eyebrow. Eliot hesitated, then nodded. "Okay, yes, I was trying to insult you. I always insult you, because--" He stopped himself from saying the rest, that it was so easy and a lot of fun. He knew Hardison had to be well aware of that, though, and it wasn't really the point. 

Eliot turned and walked back to the couch, grabbing a second beer. He heard Hardison move away from the front door, knew exactly where Hardison was standing, staring at him. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and with no clue what to say or whether or not he wanted to say anything.

"Man, you just act like this is the worst thing to happen to you," Hardison said, quietly. "Living like me for a few weeks is worse than prison." There was no missing the hurt in Hardison's voice. 

Eliot closed his eyes, briefly. "It is, though." He heard the intake of Hardison's breath, then stared at the wall in front of him. "I've been in a lot of prisons around the world. Some of them aren't too bad. Some of them--" He stopped. He didn't know just how closely Hardison had ever been able to read in-between the lines of Eliot's files, but he didn't have to go into the details in order to try to explain. 

He turned back around and faced Hardison, seeing the look of bewilderment and hurt still on his face. Why the fuck he cared, why the fuck Hardison was getting so worked up, Eliot had no idea. 

Eliot took a deep breath. "Even in prison you can control _something._ Whether or not you eat what you're given. How long you sleep, which corner of the cell you sit in. Sometimes it ain't much, but there's always _something._ " Eliot waved at the interior of the apartment. "This.... Living like this, where someone or something else dictates every single thing... There's nothing I can control. I don't even get to pick what I eat or who I talk to or what I say. Hardison, you told me what I had to wear to _bed_ in case Martinelli snuck in at three a.m."

Hardison opened his mouth to say something, and Eliot shook his head. 

"I'm sorry I hate the things you like, but that isn't the problem. I could be living like a wealthy businessman or...or a street hustler or a cat burglar or anything. That's not the problem." He stopped, taking a drink of his beer even though, really, he didn't need the alcohol to justify his loosened tongue.

But talking to Hardison was the only thing he'd had since he started this, that was at all real. And, like sitting in a prison cell waiting for the one minute when he could see the sun through the crack in the walls, it was the only lifeline he had. He didn't know if Hardison understood what he was saying, but it didn't matter. He was tired, and if Hardison wanted to storm out in a tizzy, he was welcome to go.

But Hardison just took a step closer. "Eliot, did you look at the books on the bookcase?"

Eliot blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

Gesturing, Hardison asked, "The books. Did you even look at them?"

"What the fuck does that have to do--" Eliot broke off, then just went over to look at the books. He'd barely glanced at them before, not wanting to see what sort of monstrosities Hardison had saddled him with. Now he took a closer look at the first few titles.

"I've read that one," he said, surprised. Glancing over the spines on the top shelf, Eliot saw titles he knew, half of which he'd read before. He reached over and picked up the copy of Isaac Asimov Foundation trilogy. "I own this." This wasn't his copy, but it was the same edition. He'd read it as a kid, introduced to it by his grandfather. It had been heavy reading for him the first time, but he'd gone back to it later and found that he'd enjoyed it. Helped along, he thought, by memories of his grandfather, sitting in the man's cabin and listening to his stories, learning how to clean fish properly and cook it over an open fire.

"And did you take a look at the movies?" Hardison asked, interrupting Eliot's perusal of the books. Eliot didn't say anything, but went over to the cabinet where Hardison had stored the DVDs. Eliot hadn't even opened the cabinet to look, afraid he'd see worse than when he'd looked inside the fridge.

The first thing he noticed was that they were mostly Blu-rays. Then he realized that he recognized most of the titles, and had even seen several of them before. There was the entire Die Hard series, set right exactly between Die Fälscher and The Evil Dead. Eliot had to admit he was impressed. "Half of these aren't even in English."

"The Japanese are manga, and I just took a wild guess that you wouldn't care that the subtitles suck. I don't know how you feel about Chinese high wire, but I've seen you fight before and I'm pretty sure you use wires sometimes." There was a light note in Hardison's voice that made Eliot grin, briefly.

Eliot looked over the movies again and, yeah, some of the titles were things he'd watch reluctantly and not absolutely hate, but others -- well, were things he liked, which he'd never realised Hardison would even have known. He turned back to Hardison. It would make staying here easier, at least, and Eliot started to tell him thanks.

But Hardison spoke up again. "I hear what you're saying about not being in control, but I'm the one who set all this up. You gave up control, sure, but you gave it to _me._ I've got your back, man." He paused, looking like he wanted to say something more, but couldn't find the words -- or the courage -- to say it.

For a long moment they just stood there, staring at one another. "I..." Eliot stopped, swallowed, and tried again. He felt off-balance, wanted to blame it on a week of captivity, but didn't think he really could. He nodded, and just said, "Thank you."

Hardison just met his gaze for a moment, then a small, shy smile appeared, totally at odds with the irritation -- and confidence -- he'd just shown. Eliot wanted to tell him it was a good look on him, but he still felt off-kilter and he wasn't exactly sure which way he wanted to jump.

From the look of things, Hardison seemed to be feeling much the same way. It surprised him; Eliot had long since stopped trying to plan out his life, but he usually knew what he was doing at the time he was doing it. He hadn't ever expected to find himself here, like this, with _Hardison._ For all that he gave the other man grief, he'd never been blind to Hardison's actual abilities and charms, and he'd certainly never failed to notice how the man looked. He hadn't expected to find Hardison looking at him like this, though, and -- with what he'd just said, with everything he'd done, this week, Eliot found himself thinking.

Then he grinned and let himself stop thinking. He stepped forward, grinning harder at the uncertain look of fear that appeared on Hardison's face. "What, what are you-- don't hurt me, man, I--" Then Hardison froze because Eliot had him by the shirt and was tugging him down.

It took half a heartbeat for Hardison to start kissing him back. Eliot could feel the tension in the man's body -- pressed up against his, but before Eliot could think about maybe letting him go for air, Hardison opened his mouth and let him in. There was a soft moan, and Eliot could feel the tension bleeding away, giving way to a completely different sort of tension. He smiled against Hardison's mouth, laughing when Hardison tilted his head back enough to raise an eyebrow at him without actually breaking contact.

"Do geeks put out on the first date?" Eliot asking, still smiling wide.

"I'm pretty sure this is our fifty-seventh date," Hardison responded, sounding a bit dazed.

"You've been counting?"

Hardison just glared. "I have not been counting. I just made that number up. Do you want to stand here and argue or do you want to keep doing what we were just doing?"

Eliot gave him a raised-eyebrow of his own. "If you can't say it, Hardison, how do I know you can do it?"

Hardison just met his look with one of his own, then tugged on Eliot's shirt in a mirror of Eliot's earlier actions. He bent his head down and gave Eliot another kiss, and, really, Eliot had to admit that Hardison definitely knew what the hell he was doing.

Eliot broke off and went over to the couch, making Hardison sputter in confusion behind him. Eliot just picked up the remote, ignoring the protest of how could he pick _hockey_ over him, then Eliot switched off the TV and dropped the remote, heading for the bedroom. He shot a look over his shoulder and Hardison jumped, then was quickly after him.

They made it almost all the way to the bed before Eliot thought to ask just how well Hardison had stocked the apartment. Hardison froze in mid-removal of Eliot's shirt. "Do not make me leave to go buy stuff, I swear," he said.

Eliot chuckled. "Next time, then. We'll make do tonight." Then he laughed out loud at the gaping expression on Hardison's face. 

"I get a next time?" he practically squeaked, looking hopeful and, again, completely adorable.

"Depends on if you break anything important," Eliot growled, and he flipped Hardison onto the bed, watching him bounce.

"I'll keep that in mind." Hardison still looked a little uncertain, but he also looked incredibly turned on. Eliot figured that soon enough the uncertainty would take care of itself.

~~~

During class on Monday, Eliot continued sending Hardison the cut and pasted sentence, 'I am going to kill you.' His heart wasn't in it, of course, and Hardison was alternating between ignoring him and telling him he was on to Eliot's game and knew better. Eliot had to control his grin, because he didn't want Mrs. Ellison to catch him and ask him for details over lunch. Telling her might make her leave him alone; however, he had a feeling she would think it adorable and ask to meet his boyfriend.

Hardison didn't come over again until Wednesday, saying he didn't want to risk Martinelli noticing him and looking too closely at Devon Stewart's companions. Eliot found he didn't mind the class quite so much as he sat in the classroom and tried to un-learn all the programming that was somehow seeping into his brain. Once or twice he had to catch himself from typing in an answer to Martinelli's questions, letting Hardison's bluetooth USB transmit the typed code for him so Hardison wouldn't realize Eliot was learning something.

There would be no living with the man if he figured it out, Eliot knew, and he caught himself from grinning again. He knew perfectly well his improved mood was just from getting laid. Hell, Hardison kept humming over the earbuds until Eliot was ready to strangle him, despite his own good mood. He tuned it all out when Martinelli's assistant Justin came into the classroom and begin moving throughout the workstations, sitting down and talking with the students one-on-one.

And picking their pockets. Eliot watched surreptitiously as the guy slipped wallets and billfolds out, palmed a card or two from each, and returned the rest undisturbed. He was good, and Eliot knew the students would never notice the missing cards until much later and wouldn't even realize just when and where they'd lost them.

Eliot typed a quick note to Hardison, feeling nothing more than sheer relief at finally getting out of this damn class. He had to listen to Hardison's insulted rant about not using tech the way it was meant to be used and how could a self-respecting computer science thief not use a computer to do the dirty work. There was a thump and Hardison's pained 'ow' right after, followed by Parker's voice asking if Nate wanted her to go steal the credit cards back.

Eliot let most of the conversation wash past him, keeping an ear out for Nate saying 'Eliot, go kick the guy's ass.' Now it was all on the rest of the team and Eliot could get back to being _himself_ and not a Hardison clone.

He didn't stop himself from smiling as Martinelli's assistant sat down next to him. Eliot had palmed Hardison's USB well before he walked around the table and left his screen looking just like the other students'. Eliot leaned forward just enough to make it easier for Justin to steal his wallet and had to force himself not to grab the guy's arm and twist, tamping down the reflex to break bones to prove his point. Instead he just smiled and nodded and rambled back an appropriate response to Justin's comment about the work on Eliot's screen.

He heard Hardison's gasp over his earbud and Eliot belatedly realised his mistake. He forced himself to tell Justin thanks, let him slip Eliot's wallet back into his back pocket without flinching -- much -- and hissed to Hardison that he was making it up and had no idea what the fuck he'd said.

"We'll get you on to Java next week," Hardison said over the earbud. 

"I can still strangle you," Eliot whispered. There was delighted chortling over the earbud, and Eliot clenched his jaw and gave Mrs. Ellison a polite grin, ignoring her concerned look. When she turned back around, Eliot whispered, "I can kill you in your sleep, Hardison. Remember that next time you fall asleep next to me."

"We'll save Python for after you get a handle on Java," Hardison said. "Just think, you can be my apprentice. We'll have to come up with an awesome handle for you, though."

"How about 'can kill you with his bare hands'?"

"Too long," Hardison replied. "I was thinking more like Mini-Me."

Eliot groaned, closing his eyes for just a second, then he whispered, "I will never cook for you again."

There was a long pause, then, "That's just mean."

~~~

Walking into his own place was the best feeling Eliot had known in far too many days. He felt his shoulders relaxing as he made his way through the rooms, checking each of the tells. No one except Parker had broken in while he'd been gone to geeksville, though, and everything important was safely undisturbed. She had a habit of refolding his bathroom towels, which made no sense whatsoever but Eliot left her to it. The last time he'd told her not to she'd rearranged his shoes instead -- hiding them individually around the house and it had taken him hours to find them all.

He found Parker's cheerful notes inside the fridge where she always left them; he'd stopped trying to tell her he'd said _on_ the fridge, not in it. He left them in the tupperware he'd left for that very purpose, so she could add to it next time. He checked all the food he'd left, but he'd cleaned out the perishables before the job and everything inside was still fine.

He ignored Hardison's pointed throat-clearing from behind him and straightened up, slowly, knowing exactly what his ass looked like when he was bent over. Eliot glanced over as he walked past the other man. "I'm making dinner," he announced. "I don't see how you survive on that crap you've been trying to feed me the last two weeks. I'm starving for real food."

"Yeah, good, that's...." Hardison cleared his throat again, then asked, "Do I get to make requests?"

Eliot shot him a dirty look.

Hardison just nodded. "Right. Fine. I'll eat whatever you give me, we're cool. I can do that. I mean, if you _felt_ like making those cinnamon cookies, that would be totally up to you, man. Just so you know."

"I don't have any eggs," was all Eliot said. He headed for the bedroom, hearing Hardison follow and catching the confused look on Hardison's face as Eliot began stripping the bed.

"Don't you usually do that afterwards?" Hardison asked.

Eliot just smirked at him. "Don't like stale sheets." He bundled everything up and carried them, along with the few clothes he'd left in the hamper, out to the garage. Hardison was still following him though not, Eliot noticed, offering to help. As Eliot started loading the washer he heard Hardison clear his throat again.

"So, um, when you said I was welcome to come over tonight and have sex again, did that include fucking me on your bike?"

Eliot just glanced over his shoulder and shot Hardison a scowl. "Don't touch my Harley."

"I'm not gonna break it. I just...." Hardison walked towards the motorcycle in the middle of the garage, holding one hand out towards it. The look on his eyes was completely unmistakeable. "It's a little low, but I could easily just--" He started to make a move, as though he were going to drape himself over the seat.

"I said, don't touch my bike." Eliot let the growl snap in his tone, because he _meant_ it, and just because they were sleeping together didn't mean Hardison could do whatever the hell he wanted, especially to his bike, cars, or anything in his kitchen.

Hardison raised an eyebrow at him. "So, is this objection because you don't do kinky stuff, or because it's your bike?"

"I'm not having sex on my bike, you are never touching my bike, and if you ever think about trying to ride _my_ bike I will kill you for real." Eliot folded his arms, glaring, and thinking there was no way to make it any more clear. Hardison just nodded and pulled out his phone. He began typing and it didn't take long for Eliot to ask, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Buying myself a Harley."

Eliot blinked. "You're...buying yourself a Harley? Motorcycle?"

"Yes," Hardison said, nodding. "I am buying myself a Harley. There. Have to pick it up tomorrow at nine a.m." He stowed his phone back inside his pocket and looked at Eliot expectantly.

"You bought yourself a Harley so I'd fuck you on it?" Eliot was pretty sure he'd followed what had just happened, but it was possible that Hardison was as crazy as Parker.

Hardison shrugged casually. "You said you wouldn't do it on yours."

Eliot felt his mouth drop open, then he closed it and made himself look less stunned. He found himself saying, again, "You bought yourself a Harley, so I'd fuck you on it."

The look Hardison gave him was challenging, and exactly the sort of look that Eliot had never, ever told him was blindingly hot. Eliot just went over, grabbed Hardison by the shirt and pulled him around, flinging him back against the wall. Hardison caught himself, and he'd just managed to stammer out a _what the hell_ when Eliot sank down to his knees on front of him.

Hardison's head hit the wall, and Eliot heard him gasp, "Oh, what a good boy am I." Then Hardison wasn't saying much at all, despite the sheer amount of noise coming out of his mouth.

the end

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Less Than Three You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/723455) by [Denig37](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Denig37/pseuds/Denig37)




End file.
